Sherlock's Bedside Comfort Class 101
by Jessa7
Summary: John becomes ill from an ill-advised swim in the Thames. In March. Cue Sherlock and his Bedside Comforts
1. To Catch A Cold

Disclaimer: Characters not owned by me, rest of it is. Woop!

He should've known this was coming. The pre-sleep headache, the aching muscles, the tired, gritty eyes. They were all signs, and maybe if he were Sherlock, he would have deduced it all away, or taken some kind of drug, or just not gone to sleep.

But Watson isn't Sherlock. And he had gone to sleep, because after a nice cold swim in the Thames, a warm bed had seemed like such a good plan. But apparently, there was something about swimming in the Thames in March that didn't bode well for health, and really, _really_, as a doctor, he should have known better.

Not that it had been his choice, of course.

But John hasn't felt this bad in a long time. Through all his time in Afghanistan, he had never been ill. Shot, admittedly, but not ill. And he doesn't know what to do, which is silly, because once again his brain sluggishly reminds him that he's a doctor, and he should know what to do.

A sliver of pain jabs behind his eyes, and his arms are too heavy and aching to move to massage the pain away, and he can't even move to curl up into a self-pitying ball. And so he lies there, taking a kind-of inventory, because isn't that something that Sherlock would do? Make a note of all the things that hurt, or aren't quite right? And then cook eye-balls or something.

John accepts that maybe he's not thinking quite straight at the moment.

For a few minutes, his plan of laying on his back in the middle of the bed works well. But then he feels a tickle in his throat, and before he can even tense in preparation, a deep, racking cough is tearing through him. His aching body jerks with each cough, and this _hurts_. His shoulder is jarring, and his leg spasms, and all he can do is lie there and wait until pain passes.

When it does, John can barely think straight, although Sherlock would say that he doesn't think straight anyway. Cold shivers make him tremble, and he's cold. So cold. He tries to drag in a deep breath to calm his flagging body, but all this does is set off more coughing, and he can feel the tears coursing down his cheeks. He's gasping, fingers fisting around the damp blanket, eyes tightly closed.

So inwardly focused, John doesn't hear the bedroom door open, or the soft calling of his name, but he feels the touch as soon as another hand strokes his over-sensitised skin. He jerks back, eyes flying open, then closing again as the light hits him, and a whimper passes his lips before he can stop it.

'Lights,' he rasps, and he hears movement that somehow sounds both too harsh and dulled to his deadened senses, and then the light blissfully fades to dark, and he dares to open his eyes again. Sherlock's expression is both concerned and confused.

'You are ill.' He states, and John has to fight back a laugh he knows will only make him cough again.

'No shit.' His voice is barely a whisper, but even that hurts his throat, and he winces, which only sends another round of lancing pain through his head. He looks back at Sherlock, whose eyes haven't left his face. The man looks distinctly uncomfortable.

'I, uh.' Sherlock clears his throat. 'I don't know….'

Watson sighs inwardly, and braces himself before speaking.

'Water. Painkillers.' He manages, before another fit of coughing grips him and he curls tighter in on himself. When it's finally over, he feels a cool hand on his forehead, and he's leaning into it before he even realises. A gentle stroke of a thumb, then the hand is gone and John hears Sherlock's footsteps walking quickly away.

He's back before John even really notices he's gone, which is odd, because Sherlock doesn't know where anything is in the kitchen. But the glass of water and packet of paracetamol on his bedside table suggest otherwise, and Watson thinks this may mean something but his head is much too fuzzy to concentrate.

And right now, he has more important things to concentrate on. Most pressing is the issue to sitting up to drink the water, because as much as John doesn't want to get water everywhere, but he knows his shoulder will give way if he tries to sit. But Sherlock is watching his every move with those ever-searching eyes, and before John even moves towards the glass, he's there beside him on the bed.

A long arm slips under John's back, and with a gentleness he didn't know Sherlock possessed, he's being lifted slowly, up and back until he's resting against something.

Even the slight movement causes his body to protest, and it takes a moment before John can open his eyes and settle his breathing. But then it catches as he looks up, and realises what he's leaning on.

Sherlock has moved behind him, long arms wrapped tightly around him, and John can feel the warmth of his body pressing into his back. Even in his hazy state, John can feel his body reacting to the heat, and apparently so can Sherlock if the slight chuckle, deep and low next to his ear, is anything to go by.

Sherlock, however, doesn't say anything, but instead reaches for the paracetamol packet. He hesitates slightly.

'How many for a normal does?' He enquires quietly, and John barely chokes back an alarmed response, because it is obvious from that question that Sherlock has done his usual experiments. Instead, he rasps out the answer, and the detective pops out the pills before putting the foil packet back on the table.

It is only when John goes to move his arms to take the pills away from Sherlock that he realises what is going to happen. Somehow and most definitely on purpose, because nothing Sherlock does is otherwise, John is in a position where he literally can't move his arms. Which mean….

Sherlock picks up one of the pills in his fingers and brings it to John's lips.

'Open up.' He says, voice sending wonderful shivers down John's spine, and the doctor hesitates slightly, before giving in and opening his mouth. Those fingers dart inside, and place the pill on his tongue, before holding the glass of water to his lips. He sips, the thought registering in the back of his mind that this is more than a little intimate, but then Sherlock's fingers are back with the second pill and the thought is scattered.

Swallowing tablets seems to have been a huge effort, for a reason that John can't quite work out partly because his brain is more than a little sickness-induced hazy, but also because he just can't concentrate with the warmth of Sherlock pressed against his back, and the slow movement of his hands through John's hair.

The movement is relaxing after John gets used to the sparks the touching brings, and after a while, he feels his eyes begin to drift shut.

'Sherlock.' He mumbles, and the movement pauses for a moment before continuing. Sherlock shifts behind him and leans forward, his mouth brushing John's ear.

'I'll stay right here.' He says, voice low and comforting. And apparently that's all John needed, because his eyes drift shut, and his unsteady breathing evens out, but the movement of Sherlock's hand in his hair doesn't stop.


	2. Slowly, It Changes

Disclaimer: Characters not owned by me, rest of it is. Woop!

When John wakes, something has changed. The late afternoon light has changed to dull morning brightness, but there's something else. It's something not overly obvious, and he can't quite put his finger on it, but he blames this (that) on the cotton wool that someone has quite inconsiderately filled his head with.

He does feel a little better; not quite so lethargic and out-of-touch as the day before. Although that doesn't mean he's quite ready to jump out of bed and run around the streets with Sherlock after some fiend as per usual.

_Sherlock._

John narrows his eyes, and then it registers. He is alone in his bedroom. He fights to keep a wave of disappointment from rising as he realises the detective is gone, but as he shifts slightly, he feels the still-warm bed covers on the opposite side of the bed and the smell that John didn't even know he'd learned to associate with the mad detective. Even John's brain, functioning so far at a base level, can figure out that Sherlock hasn't been gone long, and this knowledge makes that strange, warm feeling in his stomach spread.

Fighting a smile, John coughs loosely, and reaches for the glass of water by his bedside. He takes a small sip, calming his throat, and another, before spilling the liquid everywhere as the door to his room slams open and he jumps. He turns his head quickly to the doorway, before grimacing as the sudden movement sends pain rippling through his temple.

'Sherlock!' John's voice is quiet and croaky, but the irritation is obvious even to the detective who immediately ceases bouncing on the balls of his feet. The excitement, however, is palpable, and much less easy to stem than the movement, and words are quickly spilling from his mouth.

'I've been researching, John! I looked up your symptoms and I've come to the conclusion that you have caught influenza.'  
John barely refrains from rolling his eyes, knowing that the satisfaction gained from doing so would not be worth the pain. Sherlock, however, is still talking, and John makes a concerted effort to listen to what he's saying.

'You have a fever, and my research found that you should…well, I believe the phrase is 'feed the fever'.'  
John nods tiredly, throat feeling like sandpaper as he coughs, and he fights the nausea building in his stomach, breathing deeply.

'Yes, I know,' he says, voice low and strained. 'Doctor, remember?'  
He blinks his eyes open again, then frowns at the uncomfortable pressure in his lower abdomen. John swallows a groan, gathers his strength, and slowly begins to pull himself upright. Sherlock is there beside him before he can get very far.

'What are you doing?' John thinks he hears something remarkably close to concern in Sherlock's voice, but then his vision swims alarmingly, and the thought is wiped from his mind. After a couple of seconds, the world rights itself again and John can speak again.

'Bathroom,' he replies tersely, and Sherlock, for once, wisely keeps his mouth shut. Instead, he loops his arms securely around John's body, levers him out of bed with a strength that belies his lithe frame, and pulls him to his feet, keeping a firm grip on the doctor as John sways somewhat precariously. John shrugs off the arms wrapped around him, pushing away the guilt when hurt flickers across Sherlock's face.

'I can walk fine, thank you… if you'll pass me my cane.' Sherlock frowns.

'That isn't possible. I told Mrs Hudson to get rid of it.'

John pinches the bridge of his nose, and then without speaking, makes a start towards the bathroom, feeling Sherlock's arms wrap around him once more he walks. He feels a little steadier now he is upright. His body still aches and it hurts to move, but John has felt much worse pain, and he's felt the dizziness that comes with profound blood loss, and he feels that he can't reply complain compared to that.

It's the stairs, of course, which present the main problem. The steps are narrow and steep, and even though there are screw marks from where the handrail was, the rail itself is not there. John doesn't even need to entertain any other ideas for what happened to it, and he knows he's right when he glances at Sherlock and a look of slight consternation flickers across the detective's face. The look passes quickly, replaced by that mix of determination and concentration that means he's figuring something out.

Without warning, John finds his world tilting alarmingly to the side, and he groans as dizziness washes through him. He closes his eyes tightly against it, opening them only when the dizziness has stopped, only to find his view has changed. Where he'd seen stairs and carpet, he now sees black material, the smooth, angular lines of Sherlock's face and he smells the same smell that lingered on his bed sheets; deep and intoxicating.

He looks up into pale eyes, and there must be something interesting in his expression, because the eyes crinkle slightly at the corners in amusement. John opens his mouth, but finds himself cut off.

'It _is_ logical, the only really logical course of action, John,' Sherlock says. His voice is serious, but John can hear something different, something unusual in the way Sherlock speaks. He closes his mouth in defeat, because really, it is logical. It would have taken him a long time to negotiate the stairs by himself. At least, this is the reason that John tells himself. The fact that he gives in so easily has nothing to do with the warmth of Sherlock's arms wrapped tightly and securely around him, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the shivers racing down his spine at the contact.

Really. It doesn't.

There is something truly, gloriously selfish about being carried, John finds, as he rests his head lazily against Sherlock's chest and relaxes into the rocking motion as the detective pads carefully down the stairs.

The bottom comes entirely too quickly in John's opinion, and he inwardly prepares himself for the shift of being put back on his own two feet, but it doesn't come. Instead, he's only held tighter as Sherlock walks towards the bathroom.

'This is quicker,' Sherlock intones, before John can even open his mouth to say anything. 'And I don't have all day.' The words seem impatient, and a little harsh, but John accepts them in the concerned way he knows Sherlock doesn't know how to express.

It's only a few steps to the bathroom, and John is set down inside the doorway. The room, surprisingly, doesn't tilt with dizziness, and John moves carefully towards the toilet. His hands are at his trousers before he realises Sherlock is still standing at the open doorway. He raises an eyebrow.

'I may be ill, but I'm not a child.'

Sherlock rolls his eyes before pulling the door almost-shut. John knows that Sherlock is still standing just the other side of the door, but he also knows that the door pulled-to is as much as Sherlock is going to give. In fact, John is relatively impressed he managed to achieve this without more of a fact-filled, one-sided argument that he stands absolutely no chance of winning.

When he's finished, he moves carefully to the sink and washes his hands, pausing before lifting his eyes to the mirror. He doesn't look as bad as he feels, and for some reason John is absurdly pleased; absurdly, because he hasn't really thought or cared about his appearance in a long time.

Before he can delve deeper into this interesting new revelation, the door to the bathroom swings open, and Sherlock's eyes meet his in the mirror.

'Vanity is a waste of time, John.' The words are typically cutting and John winces: not because of the words as such, but because he knows he's been caught. He doesn't reply, but instead dries his hands and walks slowly and steadily back to the door.

He vaguely expects it, but it's still a rush when Sherlock sweeps John into his arms with a strength the doctor still struggles to believe. He doesn't rest his head this time, but watches Sherlock's face as he walks and as he negotiates the stairs. Going up, obviously, is a lot harder than going down, and John feels some sort of relief when the pressure tells on Sherlock's face in small, detailed lines around his eyes, but the journey is still quick, and a lot less painful than if John had walked himself.

He is deposited carefully on one side of the bed, and Sherlock leaves the room as quickly as he entered it earlier, before John realises that the water he spilled earlier has seeped all the way through the duvet. It would have been fine, he could have coped with it if it was down one side, but the wetness has spread across a large section, and John frowns. There are footsteps in the hall, and Sherlock reappears, arms laden with blankets and another duvet that John quickly recognises as the one from the man's own bed, the bed that John has seen only once through a crack between door and door frame.

The offending duvet is quickly snatched from the bed, and each additional blanket Sherlock bought is flicked out and spread across. John lifts his head and catches Sherlock's eyes.

'Thank you.' He murmurs as he crawls under the blankets. The warmth quickly wraps around him, calming shivers he hadn't even felt, and Sherlock's face is impassive as he nods his head. The warmth is captivating, and John's recent excursions have worn him out entirely more than he expected. He finds sleep pulling at him insistently, and he doesn't have the energy to resist.

He lets it drag him under, wondering sleepily if the soft pressure of lips on his forehead is just a creation of his fevered imagination.


	3. Into Something New

Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish it was. *sigh*

It takes another two days before John feels well enough to venture downstairs into the kitchen by himself; partly because of the aches he's been suffering and the slight weakness he still feels in his arms and legs, but also because he's never too sure what he's going to find – he's always had a weak stomach when ill.

He makes his way down the stairs slowly, but he's able to move much more easily and with less pain than he'd expected. It's the first time in a long time that he's able to move without Sherlock watching his every movement, but it's only because the man in question has had to go shopping. By himself.

John smiles as he remembers the muttered complaints about shopping being 'boring' and why Mrs Hudson couldn't do it, and Sherlock's face as a voice had drifted up from the flat below;

'I'm not your housekeeper, Sherlock!'

The look Sherlock had sent the door would have turned the landlady to stone, but John had just lifted his cup of tea to his lips to cover his smile before shooing the detective out of the door. The house was now blissfully quiet. As much as John was thankful, and more than a little surprised, at Sherlock looking after him these last few days, he is very grateful for the moment of respite, some time where he can just relax for the moment without worrying about how Sherlock will interpret each particular facial expression.

'Ahh, TV!'

John grabs the television remote and falls gracelessly into the one comfy armchair, flicking the 'on' button with his thumb. John pauses for a second, eyebrow cocked as he watches colourful characters running around the TV landscape, before shaking his head and flicking through the rest of the channels and settling on something more age appropriate and suitably mind-numbing.

John makes a determined effort to pay attention, but the lines between the programmes blur. He's not sure for how long he sits in that armchair, and at what point he succumbs to sleep, but he finds himself jerking back awake at a noise from the TV and as his eyes slide open, the room is darkened; the only light is from the still flickering screen. He groans a little as he rolls his neck.

'You really shouldn't have fallen asleep in a chair.' John yelps in surprise, twisting and finally locating Sherlock in the gloom leaning against the wall near the window. 'Especially considering your recent illness.'

John frowns.

'How long have you been back?'

'38 minutes,' is the precise reply, and John's frown deepens as he brings a hand up to try and massage away the pain in his neck.

'You didn't think to wake me up?'

Sherlock looks surprised. 'Why would I do that?'

John just sighs. 'Never mind.' He mutters, and pushes himself to his feet. It seems that the caring Sherlock of the past few days has departed, and John can't help but feel disappointed as he shuffles to the kitchen. There has been something different about Sherlock since the detective had pulled him from the icy waters of the Thames - as he'd all but stripped the cold, wet clothes from him, wild-eyed with something approaching fear. There is something almost careful in the way he's been moving around John, all soft touches and disconcerting, calculating glances.

John stops mid-step and mid-thought at the warm hand on his arm, turns, and looks up. Sherlock is so close, closer than he expected, and John's breath catches as he looks into those pale eyes. He is caught for a moment, then the hand on his arm shifts, and he looks away.

'What….?'

'Food is in the microwave.' Sherlock says, voice quiet, and John thinks he hears a little uncertainty underneath the normal 'bored' attitude.

'Some kind of ready meal.' John glances at the microwave and smiles slightly.

'Probably safer than cooking,' he mutters, catching the look of relief flash across Sherlock's face before he walks to the counter. He presses a few buttons, and the machine whirrs into life. The scene is surprisingly domestic as they move together in silence; John finding a bag of salad in the fridge and assembling food, Sherlock picking cutlery from various drawers and setting a small dining table he's unearthed from a mountain of paperwork and books.

When he brings the food out of the kitchen, John pauses in surprise.

'A candle, Sherlock?'

'Yes, John, a candle. I'm glad to see the 'flu hasn't impaired your intelligence.'

John smiles at the snipe. Sherlock's whole body is locked with tension as he sits very straight and still i his chair, and it's clear that this kind of meal is something Sherlock hasn't done before, so John doesn't comment. Instead, he sets the plates down on the table and asks Sherlock about the case Lestrade had asked for help on that morning. It works, and Sherlock flies into an explanation, throwing in the occasional remark about Anderson's very unwelcome input.

The case isn't anything special, and John is glossing over the facts, as he uses the conversation as an excuse to watch Sherlock, his face darkly animated as he explains his deductions. John can't help but be amazed. He's known the detective for months, but the level of detail, and the way Sherlock thinks is still a wonder. His amazement must show on his face, because Sherlock finishes his food and leans back.

'You're doing it again.' Sherlock states.

John blinks innocently, but doesn't hide his amazement, because Sherlock doesn't receive praise – expressed or otherwise – often enough.

'Doing what?'

Sherlock narrows his eyes, and studies John's face for a moment. Then he moves, standing in one fluid motion, and picks the plates from the table. John shakes his head, and stands as well, following Sherlock in to the kitchen, because he knows that the detective won't even think about washing up.

He's right. Sherlock abandons the plates by the sink, next to the myriad of unwashed mugs and cups, and John meets him at the doorway, blocking his exit.

'Expecting the washing-up fairy again?' He says mildly. Sherlock just raises an eyebrow.

'Maybe I spoke too soon,' John tilts his head questioningly to the side. 'When I said the 'flu hadn't affected your intelligence,' Sherlock explains.

John rolls his eyes, and moves to push past the detective, but the body in front of him pushes back, and John finds himself pressed against the doorframe. He pulls in a deep breath and feels the warmth of Sherlock's body pressing against his own, feels the heat of those eyes burning into his skin.

John drags his gaze up Sherlock's body, sees the tension is back in his limbs, and when he meets Sherlock's stare, he finds he can't look away.

'John...' Sherlock's voice is low and intense and John feels himself shiver in response. He knows Sherlock feels his reaction; the detective's body presses closer and John's breathing is becoming unsteady as he feels the heat of Sherlock's breath on his ear.

He can't help his hands sliding across Sherlock's body, round to his back and pressing him forward against him. He can't find the words to say anything and he thinks he's glad about that, because it would spoil whatever this is, but he has words and thoughts flying through his mind until one movement, and he can't do anything except _feel._

Lips press cautiously against his own. John vaguely registers that Sherlock shouldn't do anything cautiously, and then the tentativeness is gone. Cautious becomes heated and frantic, and it's like something has snapped, because neither man can even comprehend slowing down, or stopping their frantic explorations and movements, and all John can think is _why did it take this long?_

They stagger gracelessly to Sherlock's bedroom, and John knows there will probably be all sorts of awkward conversations when this is over and they're both able to think, but right now - right now he doesn't care. All he cares about is the feel of Sherlock's skin against his, and the small sounds that Sherlock is making in the back on his throat that he doesn't think he will ever be able to get enough of, and the hazy look in Sherlock's eyes that means that he's well on his way to losing his ever-present control.

It's awkward and vaguely clumsy because John has never even thought of doing this, and Sherlock – well, John doesn't think Sherlock has had sex. With anyone. Ever. But Sherlock's hands somehow turn clumsy into incredible, and John would think it was amazing, except that the hands twist just right, and John gasps into Sherlock's mouth, body arching into the intensity. Sherlock bites down on John's bottom lip as their movements become erratic, then slow gently, until John can catch his breath.

Sherlock stays still for a moment as the sweat dries on his cooling skin, then his arms give way, and he tumbles onto the sheets next to John.

'That was…' Sherlock breathes.

'Unexpected?' John fills in, turning his head to look the man next to him. Sherlock closes his eyes.

'For you, maybe.'

John just smiles, and as he drifts down towards sleep, he feels fingers entwine with his own.


End file.
